Those Who Live
by kim-onka
Summary: Books Universe. What may have happened to the little Princess Ozma Tippetarius? Was she killed, or does she really live? Where and how? How do Elphaba and the Wizard live? How does Nor? Yes, partly inspired by the wall graffiti Liir finds. One-shot.


Disclaimer: _Wicked_, _Son of a Witch_, _A_ _Lion Among Men_ and all the characters belong to Mr. Gregory Maguire.

Spoiler Warning: This story can contain spoilers up to the end of _A Lion Among Men_.

Now please read, enjoy and review~

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_Somewhere, all that we leave behind  
Lingers on, longing for lullabies  
You live, you learn  
You love, you burn  
You win, you lose  
Becoming you_

Kleerup feat. Titiyo „Longing for lullabies"

**Those who live**

Once upon a time, there was an infant girl whose still short copper curls, naughtily escaping her pearl-embroidered bonnet, shone pleasantly in the warm sunlight of Oz.

The girl did not know of the reasons for any of the rushes, disarrays, loud talks and confusions surrounding her wooden cradle engraved with blooming flowers; she would look around curiously, her eyes flickering between the people speaking not yet comprehensible words in raised voices.

Princess Ozma Tippetarius, crawling through the palace in the Emerald City, remained in safe oblivion of her mother's, Ozma the Bilious's, death, as well as of being the legal queen of the entire Oz. Babbling absent-mindedly, she let her father Pastorius, the Ozma Regent, perform his duties for the country.

Until the Wizard arrived.

When the wind-jerked, colourful orb of a balloon befell the capitol of green with unexpected overthrow, what did she see? What did she think? What did she feel?

And, most importantly, what happened to Princess Ozma?

Perhaps she was slain, as the common claim wants it, murdered without a shade of mercy for her innocent little face or irises filled with ignorant bewilderment. Perhaps, it is often added after a cautious, meaningful glance in the known direction, perhaps her remains have long been mingled with dirt and dust at the very bottom of Southstairs.

Who would ever try, who would ever _think_ of trying to charge the Wonderful Wizard for the disappearance of the baby Princess? Whatever motive could there possibly be for him to keep her alive?

But Ozma lives, other people assert, sleeps an enchanted slumber in a cave on the misty verge of the world, sleeps among flowers of overwhelmingly sweet, heavy scent. Sleeps only to reawaken and return to Oz in the darkest of its hours as a savior with warm brightness laid in her open palms and dancing among her curls. And before that hour comes, shall she stay concealed, shall she remain farther away than a man can reach, far and deep in legends.

Who, the skeptics ask with a patronizing raise of an eyebrow, who might have possibly hidden her? Certainly not the Wizard; could an infant, then, posses enough power, or consciousness of the situation to begin with, to escape on her own, to slid between the tight net of the new, sky-sent regime?

Maybe, an elderly merchant woman starts in an unsure voice, as if afraid to lock her hopes in the cages of words, maybe it was Lurlina the Fairy Queen in her blossom crown who descended from among half-forgotten, pollen-shrouded myths and took her daughter Ozma away, back to where she belonged, finally back home from the hostile world of reality?

Princess Ozma, an old story teller states with a solemn face, rests in profound slumber at the paws of the Time Dragon, the Dragon who dreams the world. She lies curled-up between his razor-sharp claws and she dreams, too, dreams of a better world, better future for the country of Oz, better hearts for the people who have no wish to remember her name, and slowly, gradually, yet inevitably her visions infect those of the Time Dragon and the life, our own lives becomes slowly, gradually, yet inevitably changed for good.

Everybody laughs, though, at the naivety of the story teller. A young, bold carpenter rises and says that even if Ozma lives, it is not, as it can not be, in a magical cavern of any sort. The Princess might have been rescued by a servant, someone might have fled with her and leave her in a forest for the Animals to bring her up, or else trust her to a human family or an orphanage. Therefore, if she does live, she has no idea whatsoever about who she is. In fact, the lad concludes triumphantly, we can pass her on the street everyday, neither of us noticing.

Let's say that's the truth, the youngster's mother ponders, so then the more Ozma can be reborn, and reborn again as a neighbour, a servant, a merchant, a scholar, and she will always be around, here with us until the moment of her return, when her eyes are eventually opened to let her see the way to our deliverance.

Still what, oh what _is_ she waiting for, that Ozma, an exhausted servant sighs, does it mean things can go even worse?

Mommy, a daughter inquires in a concerned tone, isn't Princess Ozma cold? Isn't she lonely?

A young woman who had once been a girl before that girl died stares at a stone wall patterned with phrases clumsily drawn over the surface, and she reads, and she learns of life and the living.

_Elphaba lives._

_The Wizard lives._

_Ozma lives._

The young woman blinks and remembers horrified, dark eyes set in a green face, and a broom and a cape, and blurred images of winged monkeys swishing around a high tower. Yet soon another recollection surfaces, one of chains and suffering, humiliation and a feeling of betrayal. Then, not without a deal of effort, she evokes a voice from the past telling the story of an enchanted baby girl; but all those images and sensations belong to the past, and so a note of refusal appears in the woman.

Elphaba, whom she had known, died. The Wizard, who had hurt her, disappeared. Ozma, from whose alleged prison she escaped, had long been departed.

And yet they live. While the young woman does not have a particular certainty that she lives, as she has no one to live for.

Not everyone is born a witch or a saint. She was not, apparently. Now it is a witch and a saint that live, and who is she? Merely one more carrier of the symbols they have become, a mean for them to _live_? But did the green Auntie choose to be a symbol? Did a child with copper curls?

_Everyone lives… but us._

Ilianora brushes her fingertips against the wall in an almost tender manner and briskly walks away, leaving the words behind her.

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Author's Note

I don't know the colour of Ozma's hair. I heard in the original books they couldn't really decide, so for my _Wicked_ story I chose copper up to my liking…

Please review, even if you're not a logged member. I'll appreciate that.


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